


Do You Ever Wish

by acertainheight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Magical Pregnancy, Pregnancy, i know this is very played out you don't have to tell me twice, silly and cracky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:04:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainheight/pseuds/acertainheight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's casual. It's only a fling.</i> That's what they both keep insisting, until Isabela brings something back from the Black Emporium, and all of a sudden it's not so casual anymore. (Or: the one where Isabela gets Aveline pregnant and they try to figure out what comes next.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a fill for this prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11099.html?thread=44037979#t44037979. Reposting it because it's not actually as bad as I remembered! (It was written almost a year ago, though, so...go easy!) Sorry I've been MIA from here for so long - I've got lots of things in progress, so hopefully I'll get at least one done soon! 
> 
> PS: All the smut's in the first chapter. There's very little plot there, so you can just skip over it if that's not your thing!

_Bethany: How come you and Wesley never had children?_  
_Aveline: Distance never mattered, but we ran out of time. It is what it is._  
_Bethany: Now that he's gone, do you ever wish—_  
_Aveline: That's too personal._

*

prologue

 “Isabela!” Aveline's ringing cry is familiar: loud, appalled, voice high and tight from exasperation—the voice she reserves for the most egregious of occasions. She knits her brows together in a mixture of bewilderment and horror, a look just as predictable as her tone. “Isabela, what is _that_?”

The women are standing on opposite sides of a small, dirty room in the Hanged Man, the only room left in the tavern where the door remains fully attached to its hinges. It's the sort of room Aveline would never be caught dead in, not usually—but now it's _her_ room, rented with a hefty portion of her meager guard's salary. For a month now, she has come here every night to wait. There are some nights where she sits awake in silence for hours before finally giving up and returning to the barracks. But there are other nights, better nights, where there is a knock on the door. Tonight is one of those better nights.

“Well, hello to you too.” Leaning against the doorframe, Isabela looks as innocent as she can muster (that is: not very), all wide-eyed naivete and feigned surprise. She glances down at the object in her hands as if it's the first time she's ever seen it. “What, this old thing? In Rivain, we might call it a _consolador_. Or, you know, a cock. A very large cock.”

“How many whores have had their hands on that?” Aveline crosses her arms over her chest, defensive. There's an air about it, she thinks, something uncanny. Her glare rises from the object back to Isabela.

“Well,” Isabela muses, eying the thing and turning it over, “I'm not sure _hands_ are the primary destination. Anyway, I haven't used it yet.” She flashes a smile. “I just bought it. Brand spanking new.”

“Isabela.” This time, the name is a warning.

“Aveline,” Isabela echoes, tone mocking and eyes glinting. “Come on, big brave guard, shouldn't you be a bit more daring?” She shuts the door, twists the lock, and takes a step forward.

“Shouldn't you be a bit less—”

But Isabela is moving then, dropping the object on an end table and crossing the room in three swift strides. Before Aveline can finish the insult, Isabela shoves her up against the wall, silencing her with a kiss.

Their lips meet with an eagerness laced with the desperation of a day spent waiting. Isabela tastes like ale and laughter; Aveline tastes like fear and need. Isabela is a head shorter than her even with the extra inches of her boots, and she pushes up on her tiptoes, pulling Aveline down towards her. Her kiss is a wave, an unstoppable force, and Aveline's knees tremble. The crush of Isabela's lips on hers knocks all her pretense aside; her act crumbles and she melts into the kiss. They don't have enough time together to waste it on hesitation.

“Be brave, big girl,” Isabela whispers, fingers digging into Aveline's hips. A smile quirks across her lips at the sound of Aveline's already-shaky breathing. “Have a little faith in me.”

Aveline doesn't respond, not with words—but her arms tighten around Isabela, tugging her closer, and she kisses her like her life depends on it. When Isabela breaks the kiss, dropping back down from her straining stance, Aveline lets out a soft, startled gasp. The sound repeats as Isabela trails kisses down her jaw, her neck, down to the opening of her tunic. Isabela's fingers run under the hem of her shirt against the hard muscle of Aveline's stomach, and she looks up, golden eyes dark with desire.

“Come on, then,” she murmurs. There is a heady rumble to her voice, a sharp note of craving, and the Avline falls into Isabela's touch at the sweet sound. The last traces of her rigid demand for control dissolve into submission as Isabela steers her to the bed, slams her down against the sheets, and straddles her in one easy motion.

Aveline reaches up, impatient for her touch, and Isabela catches her wrists and pins her hands back against the bed. As Aveline arches her hips, Isabela pushes back, claiming another bruising kiss before she pulls away again.

“Hold still,” she commands, and Aveline obeys without question. Isabela releases her wrists, sitting up. She reaches back to unlace her corset. Her pace is purposefully slow and the tension swells in Aveline like a clap of thunder.

Aveline lays still, watching, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, framed by a tangle of wildfire hair. There is nothing she loves more than this, when Isabela's weight is centered on her, thighs around her waist. It's nearly enough to make Aveline's heart leap from her chest. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of waiting, she can't help herself any longer. She reaches up, knocking Isabela's hands aside, and grasps wildly at the strings of the corset. At last, more by chance than skill, it falls aside. Isabela slips her tunic over her head, letting out a breathless laugh as she shrugs it off and shakes her hair loose, scarf tumbling aside. Aveline's breath hitches in her throat at the sight of Isabela bare before her, dark curls tumbling over the chestnut skin of her freckled shoulders. Isabela is her favorite sight, her favorite _feeling_ , all soft curves and hard wire underneath, gentle and fierce and—

Her thoughts abruptly end as Isabela's mouth catches hers again, hands going down to her hips and gripping the hem of her shirt. Aveline's tunic comes off far quicker than Isabela's did, thrown aside at once, and Aveline lets out a blissful sigh as she lays there, finally exposed before Isabela's burning eyes and her hungry grin. Isabela's nails trace down her side, to her hips, fingers curling underneath the edge of her trousers.

“I don't know why you insist on wearing pants,” Isabela whispers, lips against the crook of Aveline's neck. Aveline can only manage an inaudible mumble in response, tipping her head back.

Isabela's lips glide across her exposed neck, scattering kisses across ivory skin, before settling among the freckles of her chest. She lets her lips linger along each freckle, each bare inch, before lowering to her breasts. Aveline's eyes flicker shut with a gasp as Isabela's mouth closes around her nipple, tongue moving with a teasing expertise; her legs part, almost imperceptible, but Isabela slips a knee between them and spreads them further. Aveline parts willingly, all too aware of the wet, hot spread of desire between her legs as Isabela slides her pants down a slow inch at a time. At last, her trousers are at her ankles and Aveline feels as if her pounding heart might burst from the caress of Isabela's calloused hands on her thighs. Again she grinds her hips against Isabela's, striving ever-upwards, a plea on her lips in the form of a whimper.

Isabela shifts, one leg between Aveline's, and her hand moves back up. When Isabela's fingers dip between her legs, Aveline sucks in a sharp breath. Her hands dig into the softness of Isabela's thighs as her fingers curl up, rubbing slow circles against her. But it doesn't last. Isabela pulls back, surveying the length of her, again with that eager, dangerous grin, and then she lowers herself again, mouth on Aveline's stomach before moving lower, lower—

With one hand tangled in Isabela's hair, dark satin beneath her fingers, and one hand gripping the sweaty sheets, Aveline lets out a moan that turns into something more, high and keening.

And Isabela is pulling away again, after long minutes that felt all too brief, a laugh on the tip of her tongue. “Hold on,” she whispers, but Aveline isn't certain that she can. She reaches for Isabela, silently begging for her return, but she slips from her grasp. Isabela reaches across the bed towards the table, stretched out, and Aveline presses her hands to the warm, subtle curve of Isabela's stomach; she is too distracted by the sight and feel of her to see what she's reaching for. When Isabela pulls back, goal accomplished and _consolador_ in her hand, Aveline's eyes widen.

“Isabela,” she begins, the name sweet in her mouth, but Isabela settles her free hand on Aveline's cheek. Her thumb strokes against the ridge of her cheekbone and Aveline feels herself begin to soften at the rare display of tenderness. She swallows, her mouth dry.

“Have a little faith,” Isabela murmurs, an echo from before. She presses her lips to Aveline's, gentle and brief, and then draws back, the question written on her face. “Do you want me to continue?”

Staring up at her, at her honey-gold eyes, her half-parted lips, Aveline can't imagine a reality in which she would ever—could ever—say no to Isabela. Her shields fall.

“Please,” she begs.

Isabela's grin lights up the room. She kisses Aveline one more time, lips crushing together as Aveline's hold on her tightens, and then she withdraws. Her mouth traces the length of Aveline's body, scattering hungry kisses and leaving her tight and drowning in need before settling between her legs again. The first pass of her tongue against her clit is almost enough for Aveline to fall apart, right then, and she chokes back a desperate noise, nails scraping across Isabela's shoulders before tangling in her hair. The motion repeats and this time Aveline can't hold back her moan as she strains and arches against Isabela. She can feel herself teetering on the edge already, lungs aching, her heart threatening to leap from her chest, her body burning and her senses overwhelmed with Isabela, _Isabela, Isabela_ —

“Isabela!” The name is ripped from her, hardly recognizable in its high pleading need. She can feel Isabela's deep, warm chuckle and whisper of _hold on_ against her as she pulls back just far enough to replace her tongue with her fingers, one and then two slipping into Aveline easily.

Aveline can barely focus, can barely see, but she fights to keep her gaze on Isabela. She leans up for her, mouth eager, but Isabela remains above her and Aveline falls back against the pillow. Isabela stares down at her—the captain surveying her domain from a distance, hungry-eyed and in command—and Aveline lets out a gasp that threatens to rise into something more as Isabela's fingers thrust inside of her.

And then her hand is gone. Aveline is scrambling desperately, reaching for Isabela's hand to tug it back, but Isabela only settles that hand on her breast, thumb tracing circles. Aveline starts to reach for her other hand, but then she knows, and her breath stops. The _consolador_ enters her as smoothly as Isabela's fingers and Aveline clenches around it, fingers digging into Isabela's back.

Isabela kisses her and Aveline can taste herself on her tongue for an instant.

And then Isabela is thrusting into her and all Aveline can taste is her own strangled moan, hardly able to hear Isabela's command to _hold on, big girl_ over her sounds of pleasure. Holding on has never been so hard. Though she is slow at first, Isabela thrusts harder with each of Aveline's shaking, giddy gasps. Aveline is overwhelmed with sensation—at the growing pressure inside of her, at Isabela's mouth on hers, at the taste of Isabela's blood in her mouth when she bites too hard in a desperate attempt to _hold on_. Despite her flooded mind, she manages to hear Isabela let out a sharp, lustful gasp at the bite. She grips her tighter.

The bloodied lip and all her efforts to hold on are in vain. With one last choking moan that rises into a shout, Aveline is gone, spilling over the edge as her body tightens and arches, slamming up into Isabela, clawing at her shoulders and her back like a lifeline. For the briefest of infinities, beneath her clenched lids, the world ceases to exist. Nothing remains except for Aveline, drowning beneath the crushing waves of pleasure, and the warm weight of Isabela on top of her. Isabela slows without stopping, letting out a soft moan of her own as she watches Aveline pitch against the sheets.

At last, the world stops spinning so wildly and Aveline finds herself again. Her eyes flicker open and, with a slowness that threatens to send Aveline back to the brink, Isabela pulls out of her and sets the _consolador_ aside. Isabela's fingers trace along the curve of her breasts before settling on her biceps with a gentle squeeze. With immense effort, Aveline releases Isabela's shoulders, and she lays still among disheveled sheets as she struggles to catch her breath. She feels selfish for a moment, useless and exhausted, but Isabela's smile is comforting in its contentment. She tugs on Isabela's arm, pulls her down into the messy bed, and curls against her as best she can.

“I told you you'd have a good time,” Isabela says. She strokes Aveline's tangled hair; she sounds so smug that Aveline almost wants to argue, but she can't. 

“I suppose you were right,” Aveline allows, swallowing hard to push the words from her dry mouth, “for once in your life.”

“I'm always right,” Isabela says. Aveline would roll her eyes if she had the strength; instead she can only shake her head, eyes falling shut again. Isabela might be the only person in Kirkwall who has ever left Aveline lost for words.

After a moment of silence, Isabela starts to shift, restless. She casts a glance to the door. But then Aveline's arms close around her waist, pinning her there.

“Don't go. Just this once. Don't go.” She is nearly too worn out to speak, but she manages.

Isabela hesitates for only an instant before she acquiesces, and a rush fills Aveline at the strangeness of it all. She rolls to the side and settles in beside her, pulling Aveline into the warmth of her hold. Sometimes Aveline feels big and ungainly, as if she were practically twice Isabela's size, but now she curls up instinctively, secure and small inside Isabela's arms. Once again, she feels the rest of the universe fade away. The walls, the smell of ale, the sudden cramp in her stomach—nothing exists except for the two of them.

They don't talk about these nights. They never have, not once, not since the first drunken night when Isabela mumbled that it was a fling, nothing more, and shoved Aveline up against the wall. Sometimes Aveline wishes they would talk about it just so they could lay things out, clear and certain. The rules of their arrangement. But then there are these moments, so soft and so quiet; Aveline wants to lock them up inside her heart where no one can ever write them off with the quick dismissive label of fling.

It's not that she has feelings for Isabela, of course. It's just that— 

When Isabela carefully brushes back red hair to settle a kiss against the back of her neck, Aveline's eyes flicker shut at the tender touch. Involuntarily, she lets out a happy sigh, and she can feel the warmth of Isabela's chuckle against her neck. Wordlessly, the two press closer together.

Not a bad night, Aveline thinks. Not a bad night at all.


	2. Chapter 2

one month

“You must be joking.”

Isabela's words hang in the air, echoing loud in the empty street, and Aveline tenses at the bitter sound. It's long past midnight and they are two of the only people left lurking in the dark corners of Hightown, but Aveline has been here waiting for Isabela for over an hour, and by now she is tight with stress and fear. Frantically blurting out the news has done little to alleviate her tension—not when it was met by this instant mockery, not when Isabela's looking at her with that disbelieving smirk.

“Be quiet!” Aveline glances over her shoulder, jade eyes bright with panic. She grabs Isabela's wrists, her grip hard enough that Isabela lets out a soft indignant yelp. “Someone might hear!”

Isabela tries to tug her hands free but can't manage to break Aveline's hold. She presses her lips together in consternation. “No one would believe what they heard. Are you drunk? Is that it? And you didn't even invite me!”

“I'm not—” Aveline draws a deep breath, trying and failing to calm herself. She feels nauseous; her heart feels like it might jump right out of her chest. “I'm not intoxicated! Isabela, this is serious!”

“Is this your attempt at a prank? You know I've warned you about trying to be funny, big girl.” This time, when she yanks her hands back, Aveline releases her. Isabela settles her hands on her wide hips, brows arching as she waits for some sort of reasonable explanation.

But Aveline doesn't offer one. Instead she buries her head in her hands, only looking back up after a long moment of silence. She knows she looks just as miserable as she feels—knit brows, dark circles beneath her eyes, the frown she can't shake. She shouldn't have come; she should have known better. Her mouth is dry with regret. “I'm not trying to be funny. I haven't bled in over a month.”

Isabela sighs, looking something between irritated and amused, as if she can't quite believe that _this_ is what Aveline dragged her out of bed for. “Well, that could just be good luck.”

“I feel tired all the time.”

“You have an exhausting job.”

“I'm unusually moody.”

“When are you ever _not_?” Isabela is shaking her head slowly, constantly, her rebuttals forming on her tongue before Aveline has finished each sentence. The amusement on her face has faded into merely a flicker in her eyes. Now she looks just as queasy as Aveline feels.

“Isabela, I know the signs. I'm not stupid.” Aveline wraps her arms about herself, swallowing hard. Every time she says it, the truth of the confession weighs heavier on her—a burden she does not want to bear. The words are sour in her mouth. “I'm pregnant.”

Isabela hesitates, but only for half an instant: “Then who else have you been shagging? Ooh—that guard with the thing for you? He's handsome. Sort of. Your child will have incredible hair.”

“Only you.”

That catches Isabela, stops her in her tracks. She looks around them, as if she expects an answer to be written in the stone of the walls and columns. Or as if she can't bear to look at Aveline. “What do you mean, only me?”

Aveline can feel her cheeks burning, and she's grateful for the heavy cloak of night. “I mean I haven't touched anyone but you, not since I arrived in Kirkwall. Some of us don't like to sleep around with half the city at once, but you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?” She doesn't mean to sound so accusatory, so petty and jealous, but she can't help it. The words fly from her mouth before she can bite them back.

“No, I wouldn't.” Isabela closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. There's none of her usual fire to her words; she can't even summon up a perfunctory insult. “You're telling me that you're pregnant? And I'm the—what, the father?” She barks out a laugh at the absurdity, though the amusement does not reach her eyes.

“Well...yes.” Aveline can't believe how stupid it sounds, how ridiculous it all is. She doesn't meet Isabela's gaze. Instead, she examines a cobblestone as if it's the most fascinating thing in the world, as if Isabela isn't staring a hole right through her.

“There's one detail you've missed: I haven't got the parts. I'm good with my hands, but I'm not _that_ good.” Isabela shrugs, writing it all off with one easy gesture. She looks satisfied with her own answer.

Aveline closes her eyes. “Yes, you do.”

“Aveline, do you know what a cock is? Should we stop by the Blooming—”

“No, you do. The, ah...” She trails off, blushing even deeper now. “The...toy.”

“Alright, I'm going to have to explain to you how this whole thing works, aren't I? When a man loves a woman—”

“Isabela, be serious! That's the only thing that's changed. The first night we used it was a month ago. And I felt so odd afterward. It could have been some kind of...very strange magic.” Aveline looks down at herself, pressing a hand to her stomach and remembering the gripping cramp that had seized her that night. Though she is fighting to stay collected, her voice comes out unfamiliar, too high and fast. “After all, there have been stranger things, haven't there?”

“Stranger than this? No, not likely.”

“Where did you buy it?”

Isabela opens her mouth to answer and then shuts it again as the answer hits her. She tugs her lower lip between her teeth, brow furrowing, embarrassment spreading across her face. When she finally speaks, her voice is heavy with reluctance: “The Black Emporium. It was on sale.”

Aveline swallows, forcing back the frustration that threatens to spill out. “Stranger things,” she repeats. “Stranger things have come from _there_.”

“So let me get our theory straight.” Isabela tilts her head to one side. “I bought an item from a merchant of...questionable repute. And I fucked you with it. And now you're pregnant.” She is silent for a moment, rubbing her jaw as she ponders the story. At last, her frown dissolves into a grin and a laugh bursts out of her. “Oh, come on, big girl, tell me this isn't the funniest thing you have ever heard in your entire life.”

“There's nothing funny about it!”

“Everything about it is funny!” Isabela laughs again, a rich, warm laugh, and Aveline closes her eyes tight, trying not to let the sound flood her. “Potentially the funniest thing to ever happen. You, of all people! And _me_!”

“Is it? Is this funny to you? The idea of being a _parent_?” Once again, Aveline sounds angrier than she means to, the resentment bubbling up and over. Isabela's mouth snaps shut, laughter silenced by the venom in her tone. Aveline continues, unable to keep her fury off her face: “Because it isn't funny to me. Maker knows _you_ aren't ready to parent a child.”

“Hold on just a minute—what makes me less competent than you? You're not exactly the mothering type.” Isabela crosses her arms, lifting a querying brow.

“Oh, please! Are there a lot of infants crawling around on pirate ships? In taverns and brothels?” Aveline can feel hot hormonal tears burning behind her eyes, and she sends up a thousand silent prayers that none will escape. “If this was the life you wanted, you would have chosen it a long time before now.”

“A long time? Are you calling me old?” Isabela's tone is more amused than annoyed, and as soon as the question is out of her mouth, she shakes her head. “No, no, don't answer that.”

“You're older than I—”

“No, no, no,” Isabela repeats, cutting her off hastily and loudly. With a wave of her hand, she changes the subject: “You could end the pregnancy. There are potions, or there are mages who will do it. It's easy. Painless.”

“Speaking from experience, are we, whore?” The nonchalance in Isabela's voice makes Aveline want to scream, and she cherishes the sudden perverse satisfaction when Isabela flinches visibly at the bite of the question.

“Polite as always.” Isabela aims her gaze at a spot just over Aveline's shoulder. “I'm not trying to tell you what to do. I'm only saying it's an option, if it's what _you_ want. Obviously you're not ecstatic to have the child of a filthy drunk whore, or whatever it is you're trying to call me, hm?”

Aveline hesitates, studying the ground, finally looking up with a shake of her head. This isn't how she wanted it, how she expected it, but—deep down, she wants this. That realization stings more than the fact itself. How many more chances will she get? How can she give up this one, no matter the circumstances? The edge of anger fades from her voice, replaced by a wavering uncertainty. “I don't want to do that. But...Isabela, what are we going to do?”

“Well, apparently, we're going to have a child. If that's what you want.” Isabela shrugs, her tone as casual—hollow—as ever. “And that's as much of a plan as I've got. I've never been much for plans anyway.”

And then Isabela smiles a familiar smile, a smile that has always made each of Aveline's problems seem trivial, full of sunlight and laughter and a courage that Aveline has never dared to have. It doesn't quite seem to reach her eyes—or maybe she's just being paranoid—but Aveline doesn't dare to question it, doesn't dare to say anything that might break the illusion. With two steps forward, Isabela catches Aveline's hands in hers.

“I know you're angry at me. I understand why you would be.” She stretches up on her tiptoes, tugging Aveline down to plant a gentle kiss on her cheek. She lingers there, brushing her lips down the line of Aveline's jaw. “But it won't do you any good to focus on that. And it won't do _me_ any good to listen to you yell at me.”

Aveline closes her eyes and draws a deep breath. Her firm resolution is quickly faltering. “My career,” she says. “It will ruin my career, won't it? What kind of guard will I be, a child at home?”

“We'll make it work.” Isabela settles a kiss on her lips, drawing it out, leaving Aveline's mouth tingling. Her hands fall to Isabela's waist; she tries to pretend that Isabela really means it, this _we_.

“What will our friends say?”

“We'll make it work,” Isabela repeats, and she kisses her again. This time, Aveline's lips part, eager despite herself, and several long moments pass before they separate.

“And what about—”

Isabela lets out a sigh of frustration, pressing her face into the nape of Aveline's neck. “Aveline, if you keep talking, I think I'll murder you and save us both the trouble.” When she speaks, her lips dance against Aveline's neck, and Aveline shivers, her eyes flickering shut.

“What do you propose we do instead of talk?”

Isabela kisses her neck, warm and heavy, before moving up to her jaw and back to her lips. “I've been trying to tell you what I propose, but you haven't been listening.”

“You can't make the problem go away by fucking.” It's not the first time they've fought; it's not the first time the fight has threatened to end in tangled sheets.

“You can't make it go away by talking.” Her fingers slip under the fabric of Aveline's trousers, tugging her closer. “Now will you please shut up?”

It takes all of her self-control, but Aveline leans back, away from Isabela. “I didn't mean to be so...aggressive about everything. You didn't deserve that. I've been trying to be better about that, you know. It's—well, I suppose it's hormones. And, you know, paralyzing fear.”

“I know, I know,” Isabela dismisses the apology as if she's hardly listening, her arms circling Aveline's waist and pulling her back in, “and after all, it's not the first time you've told me I'm a pirate whore. Rolls right off my back. Right now I'm _your_ pirate whore, though, so be quiet and kiss me.”

Aveline hesitates for a moment, her fingers hovering above Isabela's cheek, before she finally acquiesces. She claims a kiss, soft and tender, and Isabela rises up into her, deepening the kiss. Aveline's knees wobble with the exhaustion she's been trying to ignore and she is grateful for Isabela's steadying arms around her.

“I'll stay the night,” Isabela murmurs. “How's that sound? I'll stay the night and we'll talk about it in the morning. You don't need to decide anything right now.”

Aveline doesn't think that she has ever heard a sweeter sound. “That would be...nice. Thank you.”

“Anything for you, big girl.” Isabela's voice is teasing, musical, but Aveline thinks—dares to think—that she can hear a note of sincerity beneath it. Before she can dwell on it, though, Isabela is stepping back, offering a hand. “Off we go, then?”

Aveline can't help but smile at last, reaching out to take Isabela's hand in hers. Their fingers knit together like they were meant to, like two pieces of one whole. When they walk down the street, Aveline can feel all of her fear and anxiety slip away from her, left behind in the dust.


	3. Chapter 3

three months

Isabela leans against the door, takes a deep breath, and raps her knuckles against the flimsy wood. “Aveline! Can you hear me? Are you alright?” She rubs at her bleary eyes, still heavy with sleep, and listens for a reply. The only answer comes in the form of a groan—followed by a loud retching and a second, wearier groan. Isabela sighs. “That's what I thought.”

With a grimace to steel herself, Isabela opens the door and steps into the Hanged Man's back room to see Aveline bent over the chamberpot, wiping at her mouth. Aveline looks up at the sound of the door shutting behind Isabela and fixes her with a glare.

“I'm going to kill you. I'm absolutely going to kill you. And myself.”

Isabela kneels down beside her, brushing a stray strand of fiery hair back behind her ear, and gently kisses her forehead—a safe distance from her mouth. “Nonsense. You're too busy puking to kill me.”

It's a fair point. Aveline groans again and rests her head on Isabela's shoulder. “And when I'm not puking, I'm pissing. You've managed to do the unthinkable and make me completely useless.”

“It gets better,” Isabela says. “I think. Eventually. And if not, well, you're almost a third of the way there.”

“Comforting.”

“You know, at a certain point, you're going to have to tell everyone. Preferably before you throw up all over them.” Isabela crinkles her nose in more than slight disgust at the pot before them.

Aveline starts shaking her head before Isabela finishes speaking; they've had this conversation before, and she's not about to change her mind now. “Not until I absolutely have to.”

“You don't think they'll notice at some point? 'My, Aveline, your tits are looking spectacular these days. Did you just wet your pants?'”

“I haven't wet my pants!”

“Not yet.” Isabela grins and taps a finger against Aveline's nose. “So wouldn't it be better to reveal the great big secret before you do?”

“Not until I'm showing.” She glances down, her hand involuntarily going to her stomach. Her clothes might not fit as comfortably as they once did, but the thickening of her waist was still subtle. If she's lucky, she'll still have a while before she has to tell anyone.

When she looks up, Isabela is still looking down at the hand on her stomach, a half-embarrassed smile flitting across her face. There's something in her eyes that Aveline can't quite recognize, there and gone again a second later. “That will be odd, won't it? I mean—once everyone knows. That will be odd.”

“It's _all_ odd.”

“I don't think you've ever said anything truer.” Isabela chuckles, looking like herself again, and tugs Aveline close to her with one arm around her shoulders. “You smell like vomit, you know.”

“You know how to charm a woman,” Aveline mutters.

“Well, I was thinking that if you wanted to _not_ smell like vomit, we could go take a nice long bath.” One finger traces circles on Aveline's bicep; her brow is arched expectantly.

“Mm.” Aveline smiles, tilting her head up to kiss Isabela's chin. “That sounds like a wond—”

She is cut off by a knock on the door and jerks upright so swiftly that she only narrowly avoiding slamming their heads together. “Occupied!” she shouts, in the same instant that Isabela yells “just a minute!”

There's a brief silence, and then a voice from the other side of the door: “Aveline? Isabela?”

 _Anders_ , Isabela mouths, and Aveline goes as white as a sheet. There are no other options, no escape, and Isabela rises to her feet, pulling Aveline with her. After a moment of hesitation, Isabela opens the door just a crack, a loud exhalation escaping her lips as she frowns up at the waiting mage.

“Hello, Anders. Fancy seeing you here...so early in the morning.” She lets the door swing fully open, leaning against the doorframe with one hand on her hip. “Of all the times to drop by.” Aveline is behind her, trying to hide—a hard task, with Isabela's head barely reaching her shoulder.

“What exactly am I interrupting?” He looks between them, brows knit together in confusion. “And what has—eugh! What's that smell?”

Isabela tries to stand up straighter, a vain attempt to block his view, but he looks over her and spies the source of the unpleasantness.

“Which one of you has been vomiting all morning?”

The two women answer at once: “I have.”

He crosses his arms, skepticism clear on his face. “Alright, _now_ I'm curious. Let's hear it.”

Isabela beats Aveline to the draw, speaking swiftly and waving her hand as if to brush away all his questions. “Oh, you know. A long night of drinking last night and I paid the price. Aveline took some time off from knocking heads around to hold my hair back.”

“That's the worst lie I've ever heard. You could drink all the ale in Kirkwall and still be disturbingly chipper the next morning.” His glare focuses on Aveline. “So what's your excuse?”

Aveline clears her throat. “I...ate bad mushrooms.”

“Aveline, if you're sick, let me help you. I can get you back to full health in half a minute and you can be back on the streets harassing innocent mages.”

“I'm not sick! And I don't harass! I enforce.”

“Come out of there.” He takes a step back from the door, beckoning them forward. Isabela exchanges a glance with Aveline, mumbles a complaint, and reluctantly steps forward. Aveline follows her, the door slamming shut behind them.

Anders holds up a hand, swirling tendrils of magic climbing up his fingers. “Tell me what the problem is or I'll diagnose you myself.”

Another heavy moment of silence hangs around them, but Aveline has never been able to lie, not to anyone—and certainly not to a friend. Just as Isabela is opening her mouth, a lie on the tip of her tongue, Aveline breaks. The confession bursts from her like a bolt from a bow:

“I'm pregnant.”

Anders' jaw drops so far that she's worried that it might fall from his face. He takes a rushed step forward, glowing hand going to her stomach, lingering for a long moment, before pulling back with the shock on his face only multiplied.

“You're pregnant!”

“That's what I just said.”

“But—how—I mean—” He looks as thoroughly stunned as if Isabela announced she longed to join the Chantry.

“It's a long story,” Isabela tells him.

He looks between them, rubbing the back of his neck. Disbelief is still clear in his wide eyes. “I'm sure it is. I, erm...I have something for the nausea. We can walk to my clinic and you can tell me on the way.”

Gratitude softens Aveline's eyes—tinted with surprise at the kindness from Anders, so often hostile towards her—and she nods in eager agreement. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

As they exit the Hanged Man, Isabela follows half a step behind them. She glances wistfully back at the bar before the door swings shut, and she drags her feet as they walk.

 *

That evening, when they are back at the tavern, gathered around a table—Aveline next to Hawke, Isabela on the other side with Merrill in her lap and Fenris beside her, Anders squarely in the middle, and Varric on his way back with another full tray of drinks—the subject is unavoidable. Anders won't stop shooting pointed looks at Isabela and Aveline, anything but subtle, and at last even the most oblivious of the group has caught on to him.

“Anders,” Merrill wonders, “do you have something in your eye?”

“Oh, kitten,” Isabela sighs, resting her chin on the elf's shoulder, “now you've done it.” She reaches around Merrill, taking two drinks from Varric's tray, glumly aware that it won't be enough. She's already teetering on the edge of _fun_ drunk and drunk enough that none of this really matters; she's eager to fall over on the other side.

Anders straightens up in his seat and clears his throat. “No, I—well, I just think Aveline has something she should tell all of you. Because,” he continues, narrowing his eyes at her, “friends shouldn't keep secrets, isn't that right?”

“There's no fun without secrets,” Isabela insists. She can feel Aveline's eyes on her, but she doesn't look up. With each drink, the prospect of the inevitable reveal has become far less appealing. The idea of all of them looking at her, knowing what she's done—

Aveline looks at her lap, hair escaping her headband and falling into her eyes. She swallows hard, tucking it back behind her ears. “Well, I...it's a funny story, actually. Not that I'm going to tell it, it's rather personal...but, um—”

“Let's hear it, Red,” Varric says, voice gently prompting.

“I seem to be—I seem to have found myself...er, pregnant.”

Hawke's mug drops from his hand to the floor with a crash. Merrill squeals with delight, hand clapped over her mouth. Varric and Fenris share matching expressions of wide-eyed disbelief.

“Who's the father?” Varric recovers first, his expression slowly shifting from shock to amusement. “Not that funny-looking guard?”

Isabela grunts and takes a long swig of her drink. “And _here's_ where the story gets interesting.”

“I can explain it,” Anders offers. “If that's less awkward.” At Aveline's nod, he continues: “Isabela stumbled across a magical device, one designed for sexual intercourse. I've heard of such an artifact before, though I've never seen the effects firsthand. Fascinating stuff. With the usage of the device, the user is able to impregnate an intended target, regardless of gender.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Ale is still dripping from Hawke's beard; his expression hasn't changed from the initial reveal. “Are you saying that Aveline and Isabela have been slee—”

“Isabela has gotten Aveline pregnant? Yes, Maker save us all.”

“I'm very talented,” Isabela mutters.

Fenris is studying his drink, trying to hide the slight quirk of his smile; across the table, Aveline is examining her cup of water with a similar intensity, but her lips are curved in a frown. For a long moment, silence hangs over their table.

“This will make a hell of a story,” Varric says at last, rubbing his chin.

Merrill bobs up and down in agreement, an enormous grin splitting her face in two. “It's so exciting! I'm so excited! I get to be an aunt!”

At last, that wins a smile from Isabela. “That you will, kitten. A lovely aunt.”

“Are _you_ excited?” The elf looks over at Aveline and then back at Isabela, questioning.

“Well, it's...I'm certainly amused, at any rate. I'm not sure if 'excited' is the word.”

“Isabela!” Aveline's voice is tight.

“Sorry.” Isabela grins, shrugs, and downs the rest of her drink. “I'm the tiniest bit drunk. I can't help it that _everything_ is amusing.”

Hawke defuses the rising hostility as best he can, now that he has (almost) recovered from his stupefied silence. He squeezes Aveline's hand, voice once again calm and collected. “We're all very happy for you, Aveline. I've always thought that you would be a spectacular mother.”

“Have you?” A tension seems to drain from her shoulders and her voice softens. “That's...thank you. I've been waiting to hear that from someone. I'm not sure I believe it, but...it's nice to hear.”

“Of course you'll be great,” Varric says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, and Merrill nods.

“Thank you,” Aveline says. “Thank all of you. I don't know—” Her gaze darts to Isabela, who is finishing the last of another mug of ale. “I don't know what I'd do without you,” she finishes, looking back to Hawke.

“You're good and kind and you protect all of us. You're always protecting Hawke.” Merrill casts a shy smile at Hawke, who hides his matching smile in his drink. “You'd be good at protecting a little Aveline, too.” She giggles. “Or a little Isabela. She might need protection more. She'd get into all kinds of trouble.”

“Very funny, kitten,” Isabela says. A slur has begun to creep into her voice, but she only reaches for another drink, taking a long sip. She runs idle fingers through Merrill's hair.

“I think you've had enough to drink, Rivaini.” When she sets the mug down, Varric pulls it away from her and sets it out of her reach.

She chuckles. “You know as well as I that there's no such thing.”

“Maybe it's time for you to leave. You're not yourself.” His voice implies that it isn't really a suggestion.

Hawke stands. “Come stay with me tonight. Both of you,” he adds, looking at Aveline. “I'm sure my home is nicer than the Hanged Man, and it's more private than the guards' quarters. You can stay as long as you'd like. I'd be happy to have you there. There's a truly terrifying number of empty rooms.”

Aveline rises, watching Isabela with weary eyes. “Let's accept his offer,” she says. “Please.”

Merrill slips off of Isabela's lap, gently prying her to her feet. She giggles when Isabela scatters light, sloppy kisses all over her cheeks, and Fenris rises without a word to help Merrill hold Isabela steady—she's swaying on her feet, eyes half-lidded and hands shaky. Isabela takes a stumbling step forward, grabbing Aveline's arm. “Fine,” she says, steadying herself, looking around at her friends. “I'm fine. It's fine. I don't know what you're all looking at. I can go wherever you'd like, big girl.” She drawls the last line, a drunken facsimile of her usual grin across her face.

*

That night, Aveline can't sleep. She can only stare up at the ceiling of Hawke's estate, feel the ragged breathing of the woman unconscious beside her, and send up silent prayers that the morning will be better, that things will be back to the way they should be.


	4. Chapter 4

six months

Aveline opens her eyes to the sight of the ceiling slowly coming into focus above her. She counts out the beat of each shaky breath— _one, two, one, two_ —and patiently waits for her head to stop spinning. At last, she lowers her gaze just in time to see Isabela rising from between her legs. Her whole body still feels warm from her head to her toes, and her heart feels right on the brink of bursting.

“Hi,” she whispers, breathless and giddy, and she reaches out to cup Isabela's cheek. Isabela smiles at the contact and leans into it, turning her head to press a kiss to Aveline's palm, as if she's just as happy to be touched as Aveline is to touch her. She looks like a dream—arching her back on her hands and knees in a languid stretch, her wild hair hopelessly tangled, the dawn light gently cascading all around her. They linger like that for a moment, caught in the silence, soaking in the sight of one another. Aveline can't get enough of her.

“Hi to you too,” Isabela murmurs at last, dropping down beside Aveline and slipping an arm around her. They curl as close as they can manage, the ever-expanding swell of Aveline's belly between them.

“You look beautiful,” Aveline says. The words are involuntary, unbidden, almost unbearably true. She rests her forehead against Isabela's, close enough to drown in the molten gold of her eyes. Surely, she thinks, there's no one lovelier in the whole world; surely no one has ever been as happy as she is in this very moment.

“You look like Aveline,” Isabela tells her, “but you _can't_ be, not if you're complimenting me.” She is rubbing slow circles against Aveline's back, right in the part that always aches most, and the familiarity is almost enough to make Aveline forget that this is the first night in four that Isabela has spent with her.

“Shut up, you slattern."

“That's more like it.” Isabela smiles, stealing a quick kiss. Aveline can taste the traces of herself on Isabela's lips and she presses closer, deepening the kiss for a long moment. When they separate, Isabela's eyes are hungry and her voice is rough: “We can go again, if you'd like.”

It's an offer Aveline wants to accept. She closes her eyes. “I don't have it in me. I'm exhausted. I just woke up and somehow I'm still exhausted. And—I'm starving.”

“I can make you something to eat.” Some of the eager light has faded from Isabela's expression, but her touch is tender and her voice is soft. 

“Is there any of the cake from Fenris's party left?” Aveline grimaces apologetically, all too aware of what time it is. But she can't shake the craving, and there's no use in pretending—and, at any rate, she has very little faith in Isabela's culinary abilities. 

“Cake. For breakfast.” Isabela shakes her head. “There's nothing quite like living with you, is there?”

Aveline flushes. “I don't _normally_ eat cake for breakfast! I just...I just want cake today. I'm eating for two, you know.”

“Right, but one of you is the size of a potato. A very small potato.”

“Don't mock me! You're just jealous I finally have the bigger tits.” She swats Isabela's arm, earning a laugh and a kiss in return. “Like you have any room to talk. You've gained a bit of weight too.”

“I have not!”

“What, that corset isn't a little tighter these days?”

“It's a corset! It's supposed to be tight!” Isabela pauses, eyes bright with indignation, before finally mumbling a sulky reply: “It's empathy.”

“Empathy looks good on you,” Aveline teases, kissing her jaw. “Now get out of my bed and go fetch my cake.”

“Will I get to eat any or are you going to eat it all?”

“I haven't decided yet.” Aveline rewards her with her very best scowl.

“So none for me, then.” Isabela slips out of bed, out of Aveline's grasp. She bends down to stretch, hands flat against the floor, and then rises again with a creak of her back. (Normally, Aveline would tease her about getting old, but she knows better than to offend the woman in charge of bringing her breakfast.) With a pair of quick kisses—one to Aveline's cheek, one to her belly—Isabela is out the door, promising to be back in an instant. Aveline is too distracted by the lovely sight to think to remind her to put on clothes before heading out into the halls of Hawke's home.

When Isabela returns, she carries a half-eaten cake on a platter in one hand and a precariously-balanced bowl of fruit in the other. She drops the fruit in front of Aveline, defensively holding on to the cake. “Eat something healthy before you get scurvy.”

“I don't want to eat something healthy,” Aveline objects, but Isabela fixes her with a fierce glare and she obediently begins to peel an orange. Appeased, Isabela climbs into bed, setting the cake between the two of them.

Isabela eyes the cake. “How do you feel,” she begins, “about licking icing off my—”

“I would feel like you ruined my cake.”

“Hmph.”

The meal is brief—Isabela is too impatient and Aveline is too hungry for it to last for long, and before Isabela has finished her banana (which she always insists on eating particularly lasciviously, to Aveline's continued horror), the last few pieces of the cake are gone. Aveline sets down her fork with a regretful exhalation. She's hungry all the time lately and never satisfied, which Anders tells her is the baby growing—quickly, Aveline thinks. The pregnancy was practically unnoticeable only two months before, but all of a sudden, it's impossible to miss; she can't believe she still has three months left to go.

A sudden clatter of plates distracts Aveline from her thoughts, the raucous sound of Isabela setting everything aside and moving to the head of the bed. It's a cue for Aveline to scoot back into her favorite spot, snug and secure between Isabela's legs. She loves this—loves feeling so small and so protected, so different from how tall and ungainly she feels when they walk alongside one another. It's the same when they fall asleep at night, when Isabela's there: Aveline curled up tight with Isabela's chest against her back, their hands entwined together on top of Aveline's belly. Aveline never feels as safe as she does then, a bone-deep contentment that she craves every night they're apart.

In an echo of those nights, Aveline catches Isabela's hands in hers and guides them down to cup her stomach. Isabela's hands are warm and calloused against her belly and her lips are soft on the back of Aveline's neck; Aveline thinks that this might be her favorite feeling in the world, that nothing could possibly be better.

“Can you feel him move?”

“Him?” Isabela smiles against Aveline's neck. “Since when is _it_ a _him_?”

Aveline shifts and twists until at last she finds the perfect angle to lean back and look up at Isabela. Isabela's face is carefully composed, no hint of a reaction written in the familiar curve of her smile. “Since recently. It's just a feeling, but I can't shake it, and I'd swear I'm right. Mother's intuition, or whatever.”

“We could ask Anders and then we'd know now.”

“No! I want to be surprised,” Aveline insists. “At any rate, it's only three more months.”

“It'll be the fastest three months of our lives.” She idly runs her fingers along the swell of Aveline's belly, staring down at her.

“So says the woman without the baby in her. My days are long.” Aveline smiles at her and, after a moment, asks a question—off-hand, casual: “Are you ready?”

Isabela freezes against her. She stares at Aveline wild-eyed for a moment, a cornered animal, and then she nods. Her voice comes out too high and too loud: “Yes, I—of course I'm ready. Why wouldn't I be?”

“That could have been more reassuring,” Aveline jokes, only a hint of humor to it. She suddenly finds herself fighting to keep a note of fear from creeping into her voice. Everything has shifted in a single moment. Isabela is so kind, so thoughtful, so _perfect_ , everything Aveline never dared to hope she would be in all of this—until she isn't. It comes and goes, sudden flashes of something dark in her eyes, nights where she sneaks out when she thinks Aveline's sleeping and comes back the next morning smelling like Lowtown. Aveline doesn't bring it up; most days, she's afraid of the answers her questions might bring.

With some effort, Aveline heaves herself upright, until she's sitting cross-legged in the bed with her arms around her belly. Now she's all but begging, voice straining, as the despair she's tried to ignore hits her in one sudden bolt: “Isabela, please.”

“Please what?” Isabela asks the question innocently, as if she could possibly be unaware. Her eyes dart around the room, unfocused.

“Isabela—” Aveline reaches out, catches Isabela's hand, and feels her tense. She has tried for so long to avoid this, but it seems inevitable. Her tongue is leaden; she can hardly hear the questions as she asks them: “Do you even want this? Any of this?”

The questions darken Isabela's face. “Of course I do.”

“No, you don't,” Aveline says, dully aware of it. “You don't want a child. You don't want to be tied to me. You don't even want to live in Kirkwall for one more day than you have to, and now I've—I've trapped you here, haven't I?”

“That's not—” Isabela averts her eyes. She is trying to keep her tone light, but it is a losing battle. “Well, it's not _entirely_ true. After all, I still have time to make a dramatic escape.”

“That's not funny.” Not when it could be true, Aveline thinks. “What even am I to you? The friend you made the mistake of fucking?”

“Well, you _are_ my friend.” Isabela squirms. “And now we're having a baby. So I suppose we're...I don't know. Very, very close friends? Who, erm, take each other's clothes off sometimes?”

Aveline shakes her head. The words come out in an incoherent rush. “That's not enough for me. You don't—you don't have to feel as strongly about me as I...what I'm trying to say is that I need commitment, Isabela. All or nothing. We're going to be  _mothers._ We're a fam—”

“Aveline,” Isabela interrupts, as if she can't bear to hear the word finished. Aveline tries not to focus on the fact that her name between Isabela's lips is the sweetest sound that she's ever heard, even when it is laced with frustration. “What do you want me to tell you? That I'm ready to buy a house and decorate a nursery? You know I can't be that person.”

“I'm not asking you to be someone you're not.” She squeezes Isabela's hand, looking down at her worn, lovely fingers. It's easier than meeting her eyes. “I'm just asking you to not be scared. Because I'm...I'm absolutely terrified, you know. And I need one of us to not be.”

A long, aching silence spreads across the room. Isabela's breathing is shallow; Aveline still can't look at her, still can't bear to meet her gaze. She can only caress the back of her hand and wait, wait for some sort of stupid silly quip, some dismissal—

“I don't know how to not be scared.”

Aveline looks up. Her heart leaps into her throat.

“I'm not afraid of anything. Not ever. But I'm afraid of this.” Isabela laughs, and the sound still rings golden, even with only a trace of her humor hanging on. “Once again I'm afraid I've let you down.”

Isabela's acknowledgment of fear is more of a relief than Aveline dreamed it would be—an acknowledgment of anything other than shallow amusement. She closes her eyes tight, fighting back the prick of relieved tears, and then opens them as another question leaps to her lips. “What are you afraid of?”

“I—” She laughs again, as if the prospect of her own fear is too much to handle, as if she can't choke out the words unless they are shielded by her laughter. “Everything. I can't be a mother. I can't. I—I just can't. I don't know where to begin. My mother—she wasn't....well, she wasn't much of an example. She took the classic 'trade your child to some sick fuck for a goat and a handful of coins' approach to parenting.”

“Oh, Isabela.” Aveline's grip tightens on her hand.

“And look at how I've turned out. Just as useless as my mother expected. I'm not much of...anything.” She grins a weary grin, like she's told herself all of this so many times before that it's truth to her now, and shakes her head. “I'm good at fighting and fucking and not much else. What kind of a mother is that? What can I possibly give her? What can I possibly teach her?”

“'Her,'” Aveline quietly observes.

Isabela looks embarrassed, quickly glancing away again. “I—I only mean, if it happens to be a girl. I just...I wouldn't have much to give her. It, I mean. I don't know how to be a mother. I don't know...how to love her like I should. No child deserves to have me as a parent.”

Aveline doesn't think that she's ever wanted to kiss Isabela quite as much as she does in this moment. She takes Isabela's face in her hands, gazing at her for a wordless moment, and then she falls into her. Her arms are tight around Isabela; her face is buried into the crook of her neck. “Our child will be lucky to have you as a parent. Any child would. You're an incredible woman and you'll be an incredible mother, and that's all there is to it.”

“You know, I can never decide if I like you more like this or when you're smacking me in the head and calling me a whore.” Isabela's shaky laugh sends a tremor through her whole body.

“Shut up,” Aveline mumbles against her neck, and finally Isabela's arms close around her too, pulling her forward and as much into her lap as they can manage with Aveline's belly between them. They sit like that for a long time, holding each other tight. Aveline wants to shout or cry or laugh—but she can't decidewhich, can't summon the strength to do anything but hold her. Isabela, scared! It hadn't once occurred to her, yet now it seems like nothing has ever been so obvious.

“Anyway,” Isabela sighs into the stretch of silence, “now you know, I'm a coward with abandonment issues, blah blah blah. Is that enough of a serious conversation for one day?”

“I'm scared, too,” Aveline says. She runs her fingers through Isabela's hair, watching the dark curls cascade over her hand. It is a relief to not have to look at Isabela as she speaks, the confession coming forth like an offering: “I'm just as scared as you. I never knew my mother. Only my father.”

Isabela nuzzles against Aveline, breathing her in. “But you had a parent who loved you, at least.” It's almost a question, but not quite.

“He was a good man, but he was no substitute for the mother I wanted. I only know how to be like he was. Prideful and...too hard. Always pushing. I know he loved me, but he never bothered saying it.” She shrugs, the slightest of gestures. “I'm too much like him, I'm sure. A good guard captain, but not much of a parent.”

“No. You aren't like that.” Isabela pulls back to pin Aveline with an earnest, searching stare. “I mean, you _are_ a hard, prideful prig, of course, but only in the very best sense. You're strong and solid and almost disturbingly loyal, and even though you try not to act like it, you have enough love and warmth in you to fell an entire city.”

Aveline gives a teasing tug to the lock of hair in her hand. “I can never tell if you're complimenting me or criticizing me.”

“Usually both.” Isabela claims a quick kiss before returning her head to Aveline's shoulder. “You'll be better than your father was. A thousand times better.”

“And you'll be better than your mother.”

“To be fair, I'm not sure that's much of an accomplishment. 'Oh, Isabela, you're a brilliant mother, you haven't even sold your child to the highest bidder yet.'”

“This is your chance,” Aveline says, slowly, “isn't it? To make up for everything your mother did wrong. Doing things the right way. And my chance to be the mother I wanted. We could both use a second chance, don't you think?”

“That's...almost comforting, actually. A shot to do things the right way. To ensure that our little girl never has to be as afraid and lonely as I was. I like that.” Isabela ducks her head, looking almost shy.

“Little boy,” Aveline corrects. She holds her close for a long moment, cherishing the feel of Isabela against her, and then she half-sighs, half-laughs. “I'm still scared, though, no matter how we frame it.”

“That makes two of us.” Isabela kisses Aveline's collarbone, light and careful and enough to make Aveline's heart flutter beneath her ribs. “But it means we're in this together, doesn't it? Come on, big girl, let's drag ourselves from bed and get some sunlight.”

“That nickname is less charming now that I look like I've swallowed a Qunari. I can't believe what you've done to me,” Aveline gripes.

“Me? You're the one who's as tall as the Twins of Kirkwall. It's your own fault we're going to have a giant for a child.”

“It wouldn't be an issue to start with if it wasn't for you!”

“Let's not quibble over the details. Let's assume it's your fault and move right along.”

But of course, the suggestion goes unheeded. The quibbling continues all the way out of the room and into the streets, accompanied by peals of laughter and two hands woven together. Aveline's heart feels as light as it has been in months.


	5. Chapter 5

nine months

“Do you remember,” Isabela muses, sprawled out on the bed as she watches Aveline dress, “when you said you looked like you swallowed a Qunari? I'm starting to think that you actually have. You could have eaten the Arishok and saved us all a lot of trouble, you know.”

Aveline grunts. Isabela's quips don't seem as funny as they used to, not with her trousers stubbornly sticking halfway up her thighs and refusing to budge. She gives them one more tug; it's already clear that they won't fasten without some sort of divine intervention, even if she can get them to her waist, but she's too hard-headed to give up this easily. “Shut up and help me get my pants on.” 

“They aren't going to fit. You'll have to go outside naked. More's the pity.” Isabela stretches until she's taking up almost the entire bed, framed by a collection of stolen pillows and a mane of dark curls. If she wasn't so damned lovely, Aveline thinks, it might be easier to be mad at her.

“Isa _bela_!” Aveline pauses and wraps her arms around her belly as she tries to catch her breath (and tries not to dwell on the fact that putting on her pants is enough to leave her chest heaving these days, Maker save her). Her pants drop down to the floor the second she releases them, and she bites back a stream of curses. “Isabela, please! Everyone is going to be here soon and I can't see around myself well enough to get them on.”

Isabela rolls over in the bed with a contented, smug sigh. “Ah, how I love it when you say please. One more time?”

“Isabela, _please_ help me before I cut your head off and mount it on a spike to serve as an example to rude, selfish, inconsiderate pirates everywhere.”

With a groan, as if standing is the hardest thing in the world, Isabela slips out of bed. She struts across the room and seizes Aveline's pants, pulling them up as far as she can manage—just enough to catch comically low on her thighs—before taking a step back to survey her handiwork. “I'm afraid you're out of luck. This is why no one should ever wear pants. I've been saying that for years.”

“They fit me last week!” They  _had._ Barely, but they had. And she'd only bought them the week before that—a custom order from a merchant who'd cheerfully remarked that he didn't stock anything in her size and almost earned himself a night in jail (right until Isabela pointed out that she didn't actually have the power to imprison people for making conversation).

“Well, they don't now. Imagine that.”

“Maybe this should have been you, then,” Aveline snaps. “I could have kept my figure and you could have gone on and on about how lovely it was to not wear pants.”

“That's...an idea, but it's a little late for that now, isn't it?” She rubs Aveline's shoulders and rises up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to the nape of her neck, and Aveline can instantly feel the tension drain from her body. “Come on, let's find you something less restrictive to wear, big girl.”

“Don't call me that,” Aveline complains, but her voice is fond. She groans, steadies herself with a hand against the small of her back, and takes a wobbling step towards the chair in the corner. “I have to sit down. Only for a minute—don't look at me like that. Can you pick something out?”

Isabela snorts and makes her way over to the closet. “Try not to fall asleep in the next few seconds.”

Aveline eases herself into the chair with a strained huff. “If I could sleep at night for more than an hour, then maybe—”

“It's not my fault! Don't yell at me!”

“Oh, whose fault is it, then?”

“Fine. It's my fault. Technically.” Isabela turns around, holding up a furiously-bright shapeless floral dress. The flowers are huge and hideous, each a different color and each color in conflict with everything around it. Aveline's eyes immediately widen in horror. “What do you think about this? It might be the only thing in here that's Qunari-sized.”

“I am _not_ wearing that.”

“It was a gift! Merrill worked hard to pick this out for you! You have to wear it or you'll hurt her feelings.”

“No, Merrill asked _you_ for help picking it out and you picked the one thing you knew I would hate most. I'm not wearing it. You don't get to win that easily.”

“Then I suppose you'll spend the day completely naked.”

Aveline's jaw works, tight with irritation, but finally she resigns herself to the hideous sack of a dress. “Fine. Come pull me up. I think I'm stuck.”

“Oh, for—”

“ _Isabela_. One more word and I'll have you arrested.”

Isabela crouches down, eye-level with Aveline's bare stomach, and rests a warm hand on her belly. “Your mother is the queen of empty threats, little one. Keep that in mind.”

The baby kicks when she speaks, and Aveline can't help the overwhelming surge of affection that floods her—at the feeling of the kick, at the way Isabela's eyes light up like they never have before. And then the baby kicks again, hitting right below the ribs in the way that always makes her gasp. “Maker, he's never still—you'd think he had four legs. Of course _your_ child would be irritating before he's even born.”

“She'll be perfect.” Isabela smiles, stroking the curve of her belly. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Won't you, sweetheart? And then we'll make a splendid team to annoy your mother together. Just wait.”

“When you're done organizing a mutiny, would you please help me out of this chair? Everyone will be here any minute now.”

Isabela gives in, standing and then tugging Aveline to her feet. “Do you need help with the dress?”

“No, I think I can manage. I—” A knock on the door interrupts them.

Hawke's voice rings out. “Hullo! Are you ready? We're all here.”

Isabela senses the rising panic sweeping over Aveline and grabs her shoulders, kissing her as a quick distraction. “You finish getting ready. I'll go out and make sure everyone is comfortable.”

“Thank you,” Aveline breathes, suddenly feeling very lucky and very grateful, and Isabela slips out of the door and down the stairs behind Hawke.

Merrill, Anders, Varric, and Fenris are all waiting in the front room, chatting softly about nothing in particular. Merrill is the first to see Isabela. She leaps up, smile spreading across her face, and skips to meet her at the foot of the stairs.

“Isabela! Where's Aveline?”

“Don't worry, kitten. She's on her way.” Isabela looks around, taking in the scene. Hawke's estate has never looked so...clean. And festive. “Is everything ready?”

Hawke nods. “As ready as it will ever be. The dining room looks nice. I'm sure my mother would have been glad to see it getting some use. I've never been the dinner party type.”

“Right, well, who would have guessed that Aveline was?” Isabela chuckles, resting her hands on her hips as she eyes the door of Aveline's bedroom. Tonight's event has been weeks in the planning, ever since Aveline made a wistful remark about how she wished there were more dinner parties in Kirkwall. In between moments of relentlessly teasing her for that comment, Isabela had started to plan a formal gathering of their friends—she'd hoped it would be a surprise, but Aveline had caught on and immediately inserted herself into the planning process. _A celebration of friendship_ , Aveline called it. _An excuse to get drunk and draw dirty pictures on Hawke's walls_ , Isabela called it.

Then the door opens, and Isabela looks up to see Aveline at the top of the stairs. The dress looks exactly as nightmarish as Isabela hoped it would and she coughs into her hand, a less-than-subtle attempt to hide her laughter.

“Aveline is wearing the dress I gave her,” Merrill cries, grabbing Isabela's elbow; she's practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh, she looks lovely, doesn't she?”

Isabela can only cough harder.

Hawke jogs up the stairs, meeting Aveline before she can take a single step. He offers her his arm, and she takes it carefully—her center of balance these days demands aid with every staircase, and even then, it's a nerve-wracking effort to make it to the bottom. “You look beautiful,” he says, polite.

“Oh, shut up, Hawke.”

“Never change, Red,” Varric calls, and everyone in the room laughs along except for Fenris, who grins nonetheless. He'd spent weeks keeping his distance, only appearing occasionally to glower at them both and ominously mutter about the consequences of magic—but the moment Isabela let the words 'Uncle Fenris' slip, he's been showing up at every gathering with wide eyes and hand-carved wooden toys wrapped in velvet ribbons. Only Varric has outpaced him when it comes to gifts. (And then there's Hawke, with the hand-knit baby clothes that Aveline keeps 'misplacing.')

The moment Aveline is down the stairs, Merrill darts over to her. “May I?” she asks, and Aveline nods her assent for what she's certain must be the millionth time. Merrill presses her hand to Aveline's belly and then bends to press her ear to it. She giggles at nothing in particular, sustained by her own delight; unlike Fenris, she's been cheerfully referring to herself as Auntie Merrill from the very first day. “This is so exciting!”

“It's less exciting twenty-four hours a day,” Aveline sighs. With a grimace, she settles a hand on the spot on her back that always aches most. “I'm ready to be done.”

“You know what happens next, right?” Anders asks. “A baby. Which will also be around twenty-four hours a day.”

“I have a feeling I'll like him more once he's out of my body and in my arms.”

“Him?” Anders raises a brow.

“Her,” Isabela says, immediately followed by Aveline's declaration of “Him.” Isabela rolls her eyes and waves a hand. “She has a feeling it's a boy. Which is silly. It's a girl.”

“It's a boy,” Aveline insists. “I'm right. Now, can we all stop standing around and go eat? I'm starving.”

“How unusual for you,” Isabela says. She ducks the blow when Aveline reaches to swat her.

When they walk into the dining room, everything is as lovely as Isabela could have hoped. Silver plates that look as if they've never been touched, beautiful flowers spilling across the center of the table, flickering candles, and an aroma that's absolutely to die for—Isabela doesn't think that Hawke's estate has ever looked this fine. Their work has paid off. She turns to Aveline, reaching for her arm, eager to see her delight.

But Aveline is hanging back, leaning against the frame of the door. One hand is on her back; one is on her belly. She is staring down at the floor, and when she looks up to meet Isabela's eyes, her cheeks are bright red.

“I think I just pissed myself.”

Her words are for Isabela's ears alone, but Anders hears, and his head jerks around. “You what?”

“I—” She looks down and then looks back up. The trickle down her legs has not yet stopped. She suddenly goes very pale. “Oh, no, Maker, don't tell me—”

Anders crosses the room in two long strides. “Your water broke! Have you had contractions? Why didn't you say anything?”

“Well, I—I—didn't want to interfere with the party.”

“You've done it now, big girl,” Isabela murmurs. "Better clean up your act before we get another lecture from Justice on responsibility.” Her tone is light, but her grip on Aveline's hand is firm.

“How often?”

She speaks rapidly, a rising note of panic buried beneath calm words; it hadn't occurred to her to worry until now. “Maybe...every ten minutes? No, five minutes. It's been getting faster all day. It didn't really hurt at first, so I've been trying not to pay attention. But this is early, isn't it? It can't be—”

Anders runs a hand through his hair, blonde strands flying out of his ponytail and sticking up wildly. “You've been in labor all day and you said nothing? Aveline Vallen, I swear, I will absolutely kill you after this is all over.”

“I'd rather you didn't,” Isabela says, looking between them. She looks nauseous—like she might pass out at any moment. “Anders, what do we do now?”

“We have to get to my clinic—”

“No.” Aveline's refusal is instantaneous and unwavering. “My child is not going to be born in _Darktown._ ” A grimace tightens her face at the word alone. The idea of travelling to Darktown is just as distasteful as the slum itself.

“Then where—”

“Here.” Hawke appears beside them, taking Aveline's free hand in his. “We can do it here, can't we, Anders?”

“I...I don't have all my supplies. I mean, I suppose I can make do and improvise a bit with magic, but...it's not ideal.”

“I think,” Aveline says, and all eyes turn to her, “that you had better make a decision soon.” A drop of sweat traces its way down her brow; she grits her teeth and tries to focus on something other than the painful tension wrapping itself around her body, so tight she can barely breathe.

Anders inclines his head in acceptance. “We had better get her upstairs.”

“Should we come?” Merrill asks. Her hands are clenched tightly behind her back and her eyes are wide as she stares at the growing puddle on the floor.

“No, no, we can't have everyone there.” Anders looks around. “Hawke, you can help. And Isabela, if you want to be there—”

Aveline speaks again, her voice increasingly strained. “If she's not there, I'll rip her head off the second I'm on my feet again.”

Isabela nods without hesitation.

When they reach the top of the stairs, Hawke guides Aveline into the next room. Isabela grabs Anders' arm, holding him back. Her eyes are wide with frantic fear. “What's going to happen? I mean, what exactly—will there be any effects from the, um, unique circumstances? Will everything be safe? Will Aveline be safe?”

“Isabela, it's _Aveline_. I don't think she's ever needed anyone to worry about her for a day of her life.”

“I know. But I do.”

“She'll be fine.” He looks up as a yell erupts from the bedroom. “As long as you stop asking questions and let me in there, that is.”

Hawke looks infinitely relieved when they walk in, as if he was worried they would leave him there with her. Aveline is on the bed, fingers digging into the bare mattress, orange hair slick against her brow with sweat. When she sees Isabela, the glare on her face fades ever-so-slightly. “Get over here already,” she grunts, and Isabela lets out a shaky, relieved laugh, moving to take Aveline's hand.

“Let me lessen the pain,” Anders says, reaching out with one glowing hand. Aveline stops him with a scowl fierce enough to fell a dragon.

“No. I want to be myself, not some magic-drugged lump.”

Anders pinches the bridge of his nose. “Then let Isabela into the bed and let her rub your back before you manage to tear a muscle with sheer hostility. You'll be begging for magic by the end, wait and see.”

“That'll be fun,” Isabela murmurs, settling behind Aveline, hands on her shoulders, “I always love it when you beg.”

“I'm going to kill her,” Aveline gasps, or something like that—she can hardly get the words out enough for the others to hear.

“I'm going to kill you both,” Anders mutters. He waves a hand over Aveline's belly and legs, letting out a sigh as the magical probe confirms his suspicions. “You won't be ready to push for hours. This is the fun part.” He ignores the looks of horror on Aveline and Isabela's faces and turns to Hawke. “Let's leave them to it. Scrub your hands and then put on water to boil. I'll gather what I need.”

As the men exit the room, Aveline's head falls back against Isabela with a gasping, strangled cry. “I—I'm going to—”

“Kill me. I know.”

Anders is right, unfortunately. He has a terrible habit of that, Isabela thinks. The sun has vanished from the sky by the time he finally leans over Aveline and utters the words they've been waiting to hear: “You need to push.”

Aveline has never been as eager to do anything before. With every desperate push, she is gasping and striving, nails digging red half-moons into Isabela's palms, the beginnings of screams slipping from her lips and fading into breathless nothingness. Isabela looks at Anders, desperate.

“Can you help her?”

She is too exhausted to object. Anders presses a hand to Aveline's belly and the tendrils of healing magic snake around her, but her relief is only momentary. With the next push, a sob tears its way from her lungs—and Anders smiles.

“There's his head! You're almost there now! Gentle, now—push gently. Breathe.”

Isabela watches, her heart in her throat, as Aveline pushes her child further into the world with every passing moment. A series of curses flies from Aveline's mouth, vulgar enough to almost make even Isabela blush—and then Anders is lifting a wailing child into the air, pressing her into the warm towel in Hawke's waiting arms.

“It's a girl,” Hawke says. His eyes are wide with awe and love as he looks from the child in his arms back down to his oldest friend, still straining and groaning in the bed. “Aveline, it's a girl!”

“It's _twins_ ,” Anders cries. “Aveline, don't stop pushing!”

“Oh,” Isabela breathes, eyes widening, “oh, she really is going to kill me.”

It happens in a blur—a messy, loud, impossible blur—and then Anders is cutting a second cord, lifting a second child, wrapping the infant in a second blanket.

“It's a boy,” he tells them, but they hardly hear him. Aveline reaches up, gasping, and Hawke settles the girl on Aveline's belly, into the circle of her arms. The crying quiets as soon as she is within Aveline's grasp. Aveline stares down at her with dazed eyes. She has never seen a more beautiful sight. Two impossibly small clenched fists, the loveliest little face she's ever seen—unmistakably their daughter, even now, bloody and wrinkled, barely bigger than Aveline's palm.

When Anders holds out her son, the lingering pit of fear in Isabela's stomach dissolves, and she draws the boy into her arms, murmurs sweet nothings against the softness of his skin, cradles him like she never wants to put him down. Already, only minutes old, a thick layer of damp black hair is slicked against his head. He is hers. He is hers and she is his. For the first time in a long time, tears spring to her eyes.

Aveline sinks down into the bed with a shaky sigh and rests her head against Isabela's thigh. With great effort, she manages to speak at last. “I can't kill you now. It'll be too much damn work by myself.”

Isabela thinks that she could die happy.


	6. Chapter 6

six and a half years

“Wes!” Isabela stands on the deck of the ship, hands on her hips, squinting into the afternoon sun as she searches for any sign of her son. She can hear Aveline's voice in the back of her mind: _How do you_ lose  _a child? I turn my back for five minutes and look what happens._ She's gotten so many lectures on responsibility lately that she could probably recite them all from memory, one after another.  _Haven't you ever heard of common sense?_ But it's not her fault that Wes seems to disappear into thin air every time she turns her back.

Isabela is so busy defending herself against imaginary accusations that she doesn't spot him at first. And then an exultant crow of a laugh catches her attention _—there!_ He's standing on the railing, perched as delicately as a bird on one leg. His grin threatens to demolish her resolve, but she clears her throat and tries to summon up all the parental authority she doesn't have: 

“Wes, get down! You know your mother will have both our heads if she sees you up there!”

“She can't catch me!”

He's wrong, of course; it might require an entire afternoon spent in pursuit, but it wouldn't be the first time Aveline's chased him down and sent him to their quarters for time-out (the fact that he always escapes is mostly irrelevant). Isabela scowls in mock consternation, doing her best to hold back a smile. “She'll have _my_ head, then! And then no one will be around to let you have any fun.”

Wes only giggles and flips onto his hands, holding himself upside down on the edge. For a moment, he teeters precariously, like he's a second away from tumbling into the ocean, but he regains his balance and begins an upside-down shimmy away from her. Isabela watches him for a moment longer, unable to keep a proud grin off her face, and then advances on him. Before he has time to complete his escape, she grabs him by his ankles and sweeps him away from the edge. He lets out a disappointed wail of "nooo, Mama!" that almost makes her want to let him off free. Almost.

“No luck, mister. You'll have to be faster next time.”

She gives him her best severe frown, but he only giggles again and reaches out for her; with a sigh, she acquiesces and flips him right-side-up, letting him clamber onto her shoulders. His skin is a shade lighter than her hands around his ankles, and when he looks around, surveying the deck, he does so with Aveline's sharp green eyes. But the attitude, the propensity for chaos— _that's_ all Isabela's, and she's starting to think it might just be the death of her.

(Karma, Aveline smugly declared when Isabela first spotted a single silver hair in the mirror. Isabela suggested that she walk the plank.) 

“Where's Mummy? She's missing everything!” Wes waves at the quickly-growing sliver of land in the distance, nearly falling off of Isabela with the force of his gesture, and clutches at her hair to steady himself. 

“She's getting ready. She should be here any second now.” Isabela pauses, suddenly struck by a very important thought. She reaches up to wrap his little hands in her own, gently prying his fingers out of her hair. “Wait a minute. Where's your sister?”

His voice slips into a singsong lilt: “It's a se-e-cret!”

“You have to give me a hint,” Isabela insists. “It's only fair.” Aveline says you aren't supposed to rely upon a six-year-old's sense of justice in emergencies, but—well, if it works then it works, Isabela figures. Aveline also says no bargaining, and Isabela knows  _that_ isn't true.

Wes leans down over her face, shaggy dark curls bouncing in the air, and sticks his tongue out. “Look up!”

Isabela obeys, casting a glance upwards—and then she lets out a hiss of a curse under her breath. “Oh, for—she really is going to have my head.” She lifts Wes from her shoulders and sets him down on the deck. “Stay still for just one minute. And don't run anywhere! I mean it this time.”

He nods unconvincingly. With a sigh that is somewhere between resigned and amused, Isabela crosses the deck in a few quick strides and leaps up into the tangle of the rigging, grabbing the first wide-spaced rung of the rope ladder that leads to the crow's nest. Her amusement fades with the next rung, though, when she hears a voice from behind her:

“Wesley! What are you doing? Get down from there!”

Isabela casts a cautious glance down as she climbs, watching Aveline yank Wes off of the railing once again. She cringes, well-aware of who will be next to earn Aveline's ire, and tries to focus on her climb.

A moment later, her prediction comes true; Aveline's shout is positively thunderous. “Isabela! What are _you_ doing?”

Before she has time to yell back an answer, Wes chirps up; Isabela can only barely hear his voice, faint with distance, but she knows she's doomed the moment he speaks: “Mama left us alone so we went exploring. Nai said we should hide at the top but I was too scared to go.” He let out a frustrated huff that sounds just like Aveline. “I wanted to hide in the rowboats but she caught me first.”

“ _Isabela_!”

Isabela wants to object, but she's too busy trying not to blow out to sea to correct his revisionist history. 'Mama left us alone' happens to be a creative way of saying 'we ran away from Mama, crawled into the storage space where she can't fit, hid until she went to find another way in, and then sneaked out and ran headfirst into disaster.' 

But it's not the first time this has happened, and Aveline knows better than to take Wes's story as the absolute truth; she places her trust with Isabela these days (if only because they'd never stand a chance against the children if they didn't present a solid united front—it's two against two, and they're barely holding out). Her shout is more from fear than anger. She watches from below as Isabela grows smaller and then disappears for an instant into the crow's nest only to reappear with Naishe clinging to her neck. The climb down still scares her (and she tries her hardest not to think her daughter's climb _up_ all alone, because just the idea makes her nauseous), and her breath catches for an instant when the wind picks up and shakes the ropes. But before long, Isabela is back safely on the ground with Naishe curled up in her arms. The girl stirs, yawns, and rubs at bleary copper eyes.

“Fast asleep up there with a storybook in her arms,” Isabela says, brushing back a strand of the girl's auburn hair, a proud smile on her lips. It's a good story, too: _Hawke and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day_ _,_ the cover proclaims,  _written by the illustrious Varric Tethras, illustrated by his talentless friends._  One of Isabela's personal favorites.

Aveline goes very pale at the sight of the book, still clutched tight to Naishe's chest. “Please don't tell me she was climbing with one hand.”

“An impressive feat, isn't it? Come on, sweetheart, on your feet.” She sets her down on the deck next to Wes and the twins sidle closer together, as inseparable as ever. Wes grabs his sister's hand.

Though they are not identical, they almost look it at times. Her skin is a shade lighter than his, but they are each covered with freckles, and though her hair is redder, they have the same unmanageable curls. They are both tall for their age. They share high cheekbones, thick lips, noses they haven't quite grown into yet, sharp wits, and smiles bright enough to put the sun to shame—smiles that constantly suggest they're up to no good. They've always been hard to manage, but on the ship, they've taken it to a new level, hiding in every single secret corner and running about with a wild abandon. The ship's crew has taken to affectionately calling them the little monsters, and though it's all in good humor, they're not far off the mark.

Wesley is so unlike his placid namesake that sometimes Aveline feels odd shouting his name, begging him not to eat a bug or swing on the wheel, but there's a deep comfort in the way the name lives on—Wesley Vallen, both halves of it—that Aveline can't put into words. Once upon a time she had thought that she knew everything there was to know about the human heart, lessons learned from grief and loss and the only man she'd thought she'd ever love, but her son has proven her wrong a thousand times over. He's taught her peace and love and joy; he's taught her that she doesn't need to run away from the past to face the future. It's the sort of parental nonsense Aveline once would have scoffed at, but now she understands completely, on a level that defies language. At first she had feared that Isabela would be uncomfortable with the name, maybe even jealous, but Isabela had kissed her soft and sweet and murmured that only fools and liars try to forget where they came from.

Naishe, on the other hand, is precisely like the mother with whom she shares a name. Aveline likes to joke that they're _too much_ alike, but she doesn't mean it for a minute. Every time Nai laughs, Aveline hears Isabela in the sound—sees Isabela in the way her eyes crinkle, the way she can go so serious so suddenly, the way her passions flare—and she thinks her heart might burst with love for the both of them. Her name was chosen with the same hesitation as her brother's; for a week they were merely The Twins, nameless ( _let's let them choose their own_ , Isabela had said at first—she still suggests it sometimes, and for half a day Aveline finds that her children refuse to answer to anything but Codfish and Blackberry). But at last, Isabela, who had looked queasy every time Aveline tossed out names, finally confessed that she knew what name she wanted for her daughter. Redemption, Isabela had said. A second chance. Six years in, Aveline doesn't think there's a better mother anywhere in the world.

The children exchange a private look and start to run for the railing again, but Isabela catches them both by the necks of their shirts, reining them in. “Not so fast. We're about to be there. If you hide now, we'll forget about you and you'll be stuck on this ship for the rest of your life—and then you'll end up a grizzled smelly old pirate.”

“Just like your mama,” Aveline says. The insult is warm with affection; Aveline laughs at the indignant look on Isabela's face and leans over to press a kiss to her cheek.

“I'm not smelly,” Isabela says, matching Aveline's laugh with one of her own. “And only _slightly_ grizzled.”

The twins, unable to remain still for an instant, clamber up their legs to perch on their shoulders, Wes scaling Aveline and Nai climbing Isabela. Nai leans in to whisper in her mother's ear: “Wes is already smelly.”

Wes overhears and beams, proud at the designation. “Really, really smelly.”

When the ship pulls in to the dock, the children are overwhelmed with excitement. Wes grabs handfuls of his mother's hair, letting out a happy shout of “Land hooooo!” that sends the seagulls scattering. Nai giggles with delight and wraps her arms around Isabela's head. “We're there!”

“That we are, sweetheart.” Isabela watches as the crew moves, tying and untying ropes in a chaotic dance that only makes sense to one who's choreographed it before. She's not the captain of this vessel, merely an unusually bossy passenger, but she knows the steps well, and she smiles at the familiar sight. They'll have their own ship soon enough, and a crew to man it. Two weeks in the city, according to the letter folded up in her desk—and then off they'll go. Aveline keeps suggesting that they find a nice, quiet island somewhere and settle down ( _maybe have another_ , she says sometimes, and Isabela's stomach does flips), but Isabela isn't sure if they could ever pry the children off the ship long enough for that. They've taken to it naturally, like they were born for the sea, which makes Isabela the proudest pirate to ever live.

But before the future comes the present. At long last, the ramp goes down, and Isabela and Aveline step forward. “Well,” Isabela says, looking to Aveline, “do you regret it yet?”

“Regret leaving Kirkwall? I'm not sure I could.” She snorts. There is a hint of worry in her eyes as she stares out at the bustling docks, and her hands are tight around Wes' ankles, but when she looks back at Isabela, the worry fades to fondness. “We're together. The rest of it doesn't matter.” 

“Rivain doesn't scare you? Not even a bit?”

Nai pulls at Isabela's headscarf, tugging it free and wrapping it around her own head. “Mummy isn't scared of anything!”

Aveline shakes her head. “Believe it or not, I'm choosing to have faith in you.”

“Then off we go.” Isabela smiles. “After you.”

She hesitates for an instant, and then Isabela's hand is on her elbow, firm and prompting. All of her doubts fade away—slowly, but steadily. She has her family. She has all she needs.

Aveline draws a deep breath and begins the walk down the ramp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post this here initially, but then I saw that there are only 45 works in the Aveline/Isabela tag. 45! That's a crime against humanity. If you have any prompts for these two, leave them here and I'll try and fill them!


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